Delta Roadtrip: New Orleans, La.
Editor's Note: This is R.D. Seawright's final "post" as an alluvial dweller. She moves north to head the Oxford Bureau of The Delta Dirt. As a beat reporter in Yoknapatawpha County, she pledges to faithfully inform on hill-country cultural occurrences and curiosities for her fellow flatlanders back home. Please look for her contributions in the near future.
Prelude to a Paradise
New Orleans is my favorite place on Earth. And though my experience as a jet-setting world traveler is rather limited, I have been fortunate to visit such locales as Scotland, England, Costa Rica, Canada, Mexico, and just about every major city in the United States.
But all these areas pale in comparison to The Big Easy, a supernatural city where romance flies on mythological wings up Rue Royale, through Toulouse, down Dauphin, up Rampart, round Jackson Square, and parallel to the churning currents of the mighty Mississippi, our Father of Waters. Romance settles in the darkest corners of the Vieux Carré like a rare and beautiful bird on a crepe myrtle branch, only to take flight again at double its former speed. I do believe that bird has perched in my soul. I even wear a fleur-de-lis ring I bought at the flea market and playfully proclaim to be engaged to New Orleans. That's how deeply this affair runs for me.
The Jackson Square Cathedral in all her splendor. Slightly tilted, for I am no Hank Lamb.
The Crescent City has been home to a plethora of artists, writers, and musicians throughout the years who have gone there to be inspired by her nonpareil persona. She is a melting pot of all that is unique and sacred about the South: an ancient metropolis of magic, mayhem, merriment and mystique.
Bienvenue en Louisiane
Jimmy Hood, Thomas Gregory and I decide to take a weekend jaunt south to explore my beloved NOLA post-Katrina. It's Jimmy's first taste, so Thomas and I are bound and determined to be the host and hostess with the most-ess. What ensues is the best time, bar-none, I have ever had the pleasure to experience.
I have been visiting N'awlins since I was a wee bonny lass and have never -- I repeat never -- missed the Superdome Exit that takes one conveniently down Poydras and to the French Quarter ... until now. Sweet Aunt Christy, my uncle Bud's lovely wife and another New Orleans fanatic like myself, draws us a detailed map before sending us on our merry way from their gorgeous and newly-renovated house in McComb, Mississippi.
Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed I hop behind the wheel and steer us successfully over Lake Pontchartrain and within view of our desired destination. Christy, bless her heart, had put "Take Poydras Exit" on the map. So we frantically search for a sign that says Poydras until we find ourselves across the bridge on the wrong side of the river, cussing a blue streak, and vowing to exact cruel and unusual revenge on Christy when we get back. We end up, instead, buying her a pretty silver cross for her already impressive collection.
Hot Town. Summer in the City. Back of my Neck Getting Dirty and Gritty.
We eventually find a parking spot behind Café du Monde and prepare our plan of attack. After carrying on about the death of chivalry, I watch Jimmy and Thomas turn into strapping cavaliers who carry my luggage like pretty little pack mules. Thomas even totes my purse at various intervals just to keep from listening to me whine at how heavy it is in the five-thousand-five-hundred-and-fifty-five degree heat. What more could a gal require?
The saxophone player who made a sucker out of me.
We are serenaded riverside right off the bat by a fabulous saxophone player who claims I need to "put some SAX in my life ... safe SAX that is." I laugh politely and feel pressured into purchasing his fifteen-dollar CD, then grumble for half a block about how urgently I need to grow a backbone. Jimmy is the next victim to fall prey to the sidewalk scam. A man claiming to work for the New Orleans food pantry stops us mid-stride with a cornucopia of stylish caps that scream "tourist." Jimmy gives the man ten bucks and gallantly gives me a black number that says "Bourbon Street," and I wear it for the rest of the day. Thomas tells us to let him handle this next time, for he is no bleeding heart like the rest of us. I assure him the man's name tag looked official to the derisive sneer of my friend and fellow editor.
Stella tells Stanley, "I'm taking Blanche to Galatoire's for supper and then to a show because it's your poker night" in A Streetcar Named Desire. Jimmy and I pose outside the famous restaurant.
Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez
Next we commence to strolling. I make Thomas snap the photo above in honor of my idol and muse, the inimitable Mr. Tennessee Williams who had his own personal table at Galatoire's, a New Orleans landmark and the late writer's favorite place to eat. It's a little pricey for our pocketbooks, so we cruise on down to Acme Oyster House where I gorge myself on a dozen chargrilled oysters and a cup of chicken and andouille gumbo. Thomas orders what I call the "100% Guaranteed to Clog Every Artery You Own and Give You an Instant Heart Attack Right in the Middle of Iberville Street" fried food extravaganza. I see catfish, shrimp, hush puppies, fries. You name it, they fry it and pile it high on Thomas' plate. Jimmy gets crawfish etouffee, and we all leave the cool conditioned air to be met with the pungent aroma of urine and stale beer baking on the blistering pavement outside. We have definitely arrived!
The Storyville Stompers Brass Band leads a party down Chartres.
Stell-ahhhh!
On Chartres we duck into a quaint little book store where I chat up the little old lady behind the counter about the local Tennessee Williams festival which includes a "Stella" calling contest in which people take turns reenacting the scene made famous by Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire. She says that various females have even taken top prize in years past. Just as I'm really getting interested in her stories I hear the sound of live jazz growing louder and louder as someone in the store shouts for everyone to run outside and watch a wedding procession pass by. Sure enough, The Storyville Stompers Brass Band rolls by in a carriage followed by three or four others full of rowdy revelers with cocktails poised at the ready. A man throws me some beads. I don't even show my assets. I wear them with pride for the rest of the trip. The beads that is.
Marlon Brando howls for his honey.
A Coffee and "Some French Doughnuts" Please
We sip daiquiris. We sip mimosas. We sip Bloody Marys and beer. We finally have to slow down and settle for water and a good old-fashioned iced café au lait and order of beignets (or as this Yankee from Wisconsin refers to them "French doughnuts") at the legendary Café du Monde. I nearly die but keep myself from correcting her. It is hot as blue blazes. Hotter than seven hells. Hot as Hades and a hundred and ten other kinds of hot besides. We decide it's time to find a hotel room in which to shower and regroup before night falls. I remember my dad mentioning the "Corn" something-or-other Hotel where friends and even my grandparents have been staying for eons. Corn Husk? Corn Bread? We figure if we start wandering around we'll run into it. And we do. The Cornstalk Hotel on Royal. Elvis has stayed here. Marlon Brando stayed here while filming Streetcar. Even Harriet Beecher Stowe lived here while writing Uncle Tom's Cabin. It's an amazing old house with history, charm, and character.
The Cornstalk Hotel is famous for its cornstalk fence which the original owner ordered for his wife who hailed from Iowa. This fence is one of only three like it in the whole world. The hotel is also purported to be haunted.
We talk to Randy at the desk. He lets us check out the room. It's fabulous. We'll take it. Thanks. And he gives us a really good rate because the Cornstalk, like many hotels in New Orleans, is greatly under-staffed since the hurricane. I feel like Scarlett O'Hara as I saunter up and down the antebellum mansion's staircases and stare vainly in all her enormous gilded mirrors.
Thomas suggests we grab a bottle of wine and drink it on the balcony before a wild night about town. The boys run down to the A&P while I get "freshly bathed and powdered and feelin' like a brand new human bein'." They come back with some cheap pinot grigio. Randy loans us a corkscrew and a mismatched menagerie of glasses. We talk casually as interesting characters come and go on the street below us. Every two minutes a horse-drawn carriage pulls up and a pack of enthusiastic tourists snaps photos of the place. I always make sure to pose and smile coyly for the bevy of flashbulbs going off. We feel like such celebrities and pretend we live there.
Let There Be Jazz or Let There Be Death
That night we go to Pat O'Brien's but skip the neverending line for the piano bar and opt for Long Island Iced Teas by the patio's glowing fountain instead.
The lead singer and trumpet player of a sensational jazz ensemble we saw.
We head to a bar dedicated to Preservation Hall jazz where we hear a sensational jazz ensemble and I drink my weight in overpriced mint juleps. Thomas and I are moved to move. We get up to dance and scoot two measly chairs out of our way when a severe-looking woman behind the bar, in a voice that sounds like Satan incarnate, asks us not to touch her furniture. Needless to say, we blow the joint.
Thomas tears it up on tambourine with a local band at Donna's on Rampart.
Our next destination is a dive called Donna's, literally a hole-in-the-wall and not much to look at on the inside or out. Your run-of-the-mill tourist would never know it's there. But the jazz is phenomenal. Thomas had seen it mentioned in a newspaper as "Best Live Jazz" by Rolling Stone or some other fancy schmancy authority. It definitely does not disappoint. The music is incredible.
Patrons somehow don't seem impressed when I inform them my friend, Thomas, is classically trained in tambourine. He majored in that most revered of instruments. We shut the place down and beg for more.
I Hear Dead People
After a couple more stops on Frenchman Street, a hot area at the edge of the Quarter for true jazz lovers like ourselves, we finally retire to the Cornstalk Hotel to imbibe one more bottle of cheap pino grigio "just to put the stopper on so to speak." Our nightcap is interrupted by what sounds like someone falling down the stairs. But when Thomas and Jimmy rush to investigate there is absolutely no one in sight. We believe it was the ghost of the little girl who died in a school fire down the street and who walks the halls of the Cornstalk to this day. Apparently she tripped and had quite a nasty tumble.
We sleep like the dead and rise like vampires to the blinding light of a Sunday morning pouring through our window. It is almost noon. Check-out was at 11. We pack our stuff, turn in two of three room keys (the location of the missing one is anyone's guess), and make the trek to our vehicle.
Farewell For Now
Our last stop is Port of Call burger joint on Esplanade. We devour our lunch and sadly return to I-10 for the depressing drive back to south Mississippi. Despite getting caught in a monsoon around Manchac, we manage to make our I-55 exit, avoiding Baton Rouge and arriving in one piece with a passel of memories and a burning desire to go back first chance we get.
Prelude to a Paradise
New Orleans is my favorite place on Earth. And though my experience as a jet-setting world traveler is rather limited, I have been fortunate to visit such locales as Scotland, England, Costa Rica, Canada, Mexico, and just about every major city in the United States.
But all these areas pale in comparison to The Big Easy, a supernatural city where romance flies on mythological wings up Rue Royale, through Toulouse, down Dauphin, up Rampart, round Jackson Square, and parallel to the churning currents of the mighty Mississippi, our Father of Waters. Romance settles in the darkest corners of the Vieux Carré like a rare and beautiful bird on a crepe myrtle branch, only to take flight again at double its former speed. I do believe that bird has perched in my soul. I even wear a fleur-de-lis ring I bought at the flea market and playfully proclaim to be engaged to New Orleans. That's how deeply this affair runs for me.
The Jackson Square Cathedral in all her splendor. Slightly tilted, for I am no Hank Lamb.
The Crescent City has been home to a plethora of artists, writers, and musicians throughout the years who have gone there to be inspired by her nonpareil persona. She is a melting pot of all that is unique and sacred about the South: an ancient metropolis of magic, mayhem, merriment and mystique.
Bienvenue en Louisiane
Jimmy Hood, Thomas Gregory and I decide to take a weekend jaunt south to explore my beloved NOLA post-Katrina. It's Jimmy's first taste, so Thomas and I are bound and determined to be the host and hostess with the most-ess. What ensues is the best time, bar-none, I have ever had the pleasure to experience.
I have been visiting N'awlins since I was a wee bonny lass and have never -- I repeat never -- missed the Superdome Exit that takes one conveniently down Poydras and to the French Quarter ... until now. Sweet Aunt Christy, my uncle Bud's lovely wife and another New Orleans fanatic like myself, draws us a detailed map before sending us on our merry way from their gorgeous and newly-renovated house in McComb, Mississippi.
Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed I hop behind the wheel and steer us successfully over Lake Pontchartrain and within view of our desired destination. Christy, bless her heart, had put "Take Poydras Exit" on the map. So we frantically search for a sign that says Poydras until we find ourselves across the bridge on the wrong side of the river, cussing a blue streak, and vowing to exact cruel and unusual revenge on Christy when we get back. We end up, instead, buying her a pretty silver cross for her already impressive collection.
Hot Town. Summer in the City. Back of my Neck Getting Dirty and Gritty.
We eventually find a parking spot behind Café du Monde and prepare our plan of attack. After carrying on about the death of chivalry, I watch Jimmy and Thomas turn into strapping cavaliers who carry my luggage like pretty little pack mules. Thomas even totes my purse at various intervals just to keep from listening to me whine at how heavy it is in the five-thousand-five-hundred-and-fifty-five degree heat. What more could a gal require?
The saxophone player who made a sucker out of me.
We are serenaded riverside right off the bat by a fabulous saxophone player who claims I need to "put some SAX in my life ... safe SAX that is." I laugh politely and feel pressured into purchasing his fifteen-dollar CD, then grumble for half a block about how urgently I need to grow a backbone. Jimmy is the next victim to fall prey to the sidewalk scam. A man claiming to work for the New Orleans food pantry stops us mid-stride with a cornucopia of stylish caps that scream "tourist." Jimmy gives the man ten bucks and gallantly gives me a black number that says "Bourbon Street," and I wear it for the rest of the day. Thomas tells us to let him handle this next time, for he is no bleeding heart like the rest of us. I assure him the man's name tag looked official to the derisive sneer of my friend and fellow editor.
Stella tells Stanley, "I'm taking Blanche to Galatoire's for supper and then to a show because it's your poker night" in A Streetcar Named Desire. Jimmy and I pose outside the famous restaurant.
Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez
Next we commence to strolling. I make Thomas snap the photo above in honor of my idol and muse, the inimitable Mr. Tennessee Williams who had his own personal table at Galatoire's, a New Orleans landmark and the late writer's favorite place to eat. It's a little pricey for our pocketbooks, so we cruise on down to Acme Oyster House where I gorge myself on a dozen chargrilled oysters and a cup of chicken and andouille gumbo. Thomas orders what I call the "100% Guaranteed to Clog Every Artery You Own and Give You an Instant Heart Attack Right in the Middle of Iberville Street" fried food extravaganza. I see catfish, shrimp, hush puppies, fries. You name it, they fry it and pile it high on Thomas' plate. Jimmy gets crawfish etouffee, and we all leave the cool conditioned air to be met with the pungent aroma of urine and stale beer baking on the blistering pavement outside. We have definitely arrived!
The Storyville Stompers Brass Band leads a party down Chartres.
Stell-ahhhh!
On Chartres we duck into a quaint little book store where I chat up the little old lady behind the counter about the local Tennessee Williams festival which includes a "Stella" calling contest in which people take turns reenacting the scene made famous by Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire. She says that various females have even taken top prize in years past. Just as I'm really getting interested in her stories I hear the sound of live jazz growing louder and louder as someone in the store shouts for everyone to run outside and watch a wedding procession pass by. Sure enough, The Storyville Stompers Brass Band rolls by in a carriage followed by three or four others full of rowdy revelers with cocktails poised at the ready. A man throws me some beads. I don't even show my assets. I wear them with pride for the rest of the trip. The beads that is.
Marlon Brando howls for his honey.
A Coffee and "Some French Doughnuts" Please
We sip daiquiris. We sip mimosas. We sip Bloody Marys and beer. We finally have to slow down and settle for water and a good old-fashioned iced café au lait and order of beignets (or as this Yankee from Wisconsin refers to them "French doughnuts") at the legendary Café du Monde. I nearly die but keep myself from correcting her. It is hot as blue blazes. Hotter than seven hells. Hot as Hades and a hundred and ten other kinds of hot besides. We decide it's time to find a hotel room in which to shower and regroup before night falls. I remember my dad mentioning the "Corn" something-or-other Hotel where friends and even my grandparents have been staying for eons. Corn Husk? Corn Bread? We figure if we start wandering around we'll run into it. And we do. The Cornstalk Hotel on Royal. Elvis has stayed here. Marlon Brando stayed here while filming Streetcar. Even Harriet Beecher Stowe lived here while writing Uncle Tom's Cabin. It's an amazing old house with history, charm, and character.
The Cornstalk Hotel is famous for its cornstalk fence which the original owner ordered for his wife who hailed from Iowa. This fence is one of only three like it in the whole world. The hotel is also purported to be haunted.
We talk to Randy at the desk. He lets us check out the room. It's fabulous. We'll take it. Thanks. And he gives us a really good rate because the Cornstalk, like many hotels in New Orleans, is greatly under-staffed since the hurricane. I feel like Scarlett O'Hara as I saunter up and down the antebellum mansion's staircases and stare vainly in all her enormous gilded mirrors.
Thomas suggests we grab a bottle of wine and drink it on the balcony before a wild night about town. The boys run down to the A&P while I get "freshly bathed and powdered and feelin' like a brand new human bein'." They come back with some cheap pinot grigio. Randy loans us a corkscrew and a mismatched menagerie of glasses. We talk casually as interesting characters come and go on the street below us. Every two minutes a horse-drawn carriage pulls up and a pack of enthusiastic tourists snaps photos of the place. I always make sure to pose and smile coyly for the bevy of flashbulbs going off. We feel like such celebrities and pretend we live there.
Let There Be Jazz or Let There Be Death
That night we go to Pat O'Brien's but skip the neverending line for the piano bar and opt for Long Island Iced Teas by the patio's glowing fountain instead.
The lead singer and trumpet player of a sensational jazz ensemble we saw.
We head to a bar dedicated to Preservation Hall jazz where we hear a sensational jazz ensemble and I drink my weight in overpriced mint juleps. Thomas and I are moved to move. We get up to dance and scoot two measly chairs out of our way when a severe-looking woman behind the bar, in a voice that sounds like Satan incarnate, asks us not to touch her furniture. Needless to say, we blow the joint.
Thomas tears it up on tambourine with a local band at Donna's on Rampart.
Our next destination is a dive called Donna's, literally a hole-in-the-wall and not much to look at on the inside or out. Your run-of-the-mill tourist would never know it's there. But the jazz is phenomenal. Thomas had seen it mentioned in a newspaper as "Best Live Jazz" by Rolling Stone or some other fancy schmancy authority. It definitely does not disappoint. The music is incredible.
Patrons somehow don't seem impressed when I inform them my friend, Thomas, is classically trained in tambourine. He majored in that most revered of instruments. We shut the place down and beg for more.
I Hear Dead People
After a couple more stops on Frenchman Street, a hot area at the edge of the Quarter for true jazz lovers like ourselves, we finally retire to the Cornstalk Hotel to imbibe one more bottle of cheap pino grigio "just to put the stopper on so to speak." Our nightcap is interrupted by what sounds like someone falling down the stairs. But when Thomas and Jimmy rush to investigate there is absolutely no one in sight. We believe it was the ghost of the little girl who died in a school fire down the street and who walks the halls of the Cornstalk to this day. Apparently she tripped and had quite a nasty tumble.
We sleep like the dead and rise like vampires to the blinding light of a Sunday morning pouring through our window. It is almost noon. Check-out was at 11. We pack our stuff, turn in two of three room keys (the location of the missing one is anyone's guess), and make the trek to our vehicle.
Farewell For Now
Our last stop is Port of Call burger joint on Esplanade. We devour our lunch and sadly return to I-10 for the depressing drive back to south Mississippi. Despite getting caught in a monsoon around Manchac, we manage to make our I-55 exit, avoiding Baton Rouge and arriving in one piece with a passel of memories and a burning desire to go back first chance we get.
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